


Eleventh

by isitandwonder



Series: Sherlock Advent Calendar [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:36:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5401520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MARY: "Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know."</p>
<p>But who was?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eleventh

Sherlock was 19 when he started studying chemistry at Cambridge and 21 when he left, after just two years, without a degree – to the utter dismay of his family but, as there were worse things to come than a failed career in science, this time of his life was almost forgotten when he met John Watson.

To be precise, the time was almost forgotten until one evening, when Sherlock and John, after wrapping up a quite promising case of blackmail ( which normally were straightforward and therefore quite dull but at least financially rewarding), involving former team members of the victorious 2001 Men's Eight of Cambridge University Boat Club (or Cambridge Blues as they called themselves). During the course of their investigation John had come to strongly suspect that Sherlock was at least acquainted with their desperate client, who had been recommended by an old friend from uni days and who entrusted Sherlock with this delicate business especially for being an alumnus of their mutual alma mater.

Of course, Sherlock had sorted the whole racy affair out. After duly celebrating their success at their favourite Chinese place they both had to wind down, which was traditionally done in their opposite chairs, relaxing before the fire place while sipping wickedly expensive single malt, a gift from another grateful client.

“So, you went to King's College?” John had toed his shoes off and stretched his legs out in front of a nicely crackling fire.

“Yes.”

“You never mentioned it.”

“No.”

“It's quite a posh place, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“You really don't want to talk about it, do you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Silence. _Ha, gotcha!_ John triumphed inwardly.

It took Sherlock a long time to answer. At one point, John thought Sherlock would just ignore his question but as John kept looking at him expectantly, Sherlock seemed finally to crack.

“It wasn't… “ he hesitated, which was nearly unheard of at 221b. “I wasn't… let's put it tist way: the place didn't suit me and vice versa.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” John refused to back down. “Don't tell me you weren't up to the academic requirements, for that's bollocks. What did you read, by the way?”

“Natural science, specialising in Chemistry, Biology of Cells and Materials Science.”

“Wow, so you are a Chemist. What is it, a BA, or MSc, or MChem?”

“Nothing of that. I dropped out.”

“You did what?” John was baffled.

“I dropped out. I didn't take the exams. As I said, I didn't get by.”

“But… I don't get it, you simply love pondering over your microscope, experimenting, puttering with all kinds of gels and petri dishes and Erlenmeyer flasks.”

“It wasn't the academic stuff that made me leave. It was… I had difficulties dealing with… interpersonal relationships.”

Sherlock concentrated intensely on his glass, sloshing the amber liquid around and around. If John wasn't mistaken, he had blushed slightly.

“Oh… Ok.” John thought about that for a minute. It was true, Sherlock was rude and insensitive and seemed sometimes rather cold and detached but John regarded anybody who even had a vague interest in Natural Sciences as a nerd anyway, so he couldn't fathom Sherlock being such an odd duck at uni. 

John tried to voice his thoughts: “But surely, in this kind of environment, you had loads of things in common with your fellow students?”

Sherlock laughed but it sounded choked and rather sad.

“No, not in the slightest.”

“What happened? I can't imagine someone bullying you.” Sherlock would have ripped anyone remotely trying to intimidate him into shreds, even back then. John was sure of that.

“Oh, no, nothing of that kind. It was much more… vicious.”

“Could you please stop talking in riddles? Plain English for me, if you don't mind.”

“But it should be obvious by now, even for someone like you: I met someone. It didn't work out.”

John nearly snorted his drink. “You, Sherlock Holmes, the poster boy of consistent rational logic, left university and a promising career behind because someone… broke your heart?” John asked rather mockingly but then nearly bit off his tongue as he glanced back over to Sherlock, who was gripping his tumbler hard, his knuckles turning white, while his face had flushed crimson in embarrassment.

“I'm sorry... I didn't mean to make fun of you but… I'd never thought...” John sputtered.

“What?” Sherlock asked sharply. “That I'd experienced emotional turmoil? You think love’s a mystery to me? Believe me, I've learned the hard way that the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive. No pun intended.” He sounded bitter.

“But you said… back at Angelo's… that women were not really your area.”

“They aren't.” Sherlock fixed John with a carefully blank gaze.

“So, you mean… Oh!” John could just stop himself short from slapping his hand against his forehead as it dawned on him what Sherlock's words implied.

“His name was Victor Trevor.” Sherlock emptied his glass and refilled it generously. “He was the only friend I made in the whole two years I spent at King's. I even once stayed with him at his father’s manor house in Norfolk for the holidays. But, as I said… it didn't work out… in the end.”

“I'm sorry.” John said and genuinely meant it.

“Don't be. It was better that way. He had some… quite unpleasant tendencies.” If that was acknowledged by a man who played with a loaded weapon when bored and kept human heads in the fridge, it sounded actually disturbing.

“Care to elaborate?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock shifted in his seat, obviously uneasy. “We experimented a bit…,” he finally admitted in a low voice.

“Drugs?”

“Amongst other things.” Sherlock stared into the flames, lost in the past.

“And you didn't like it?” John shied away from the mental image of a quite young, utterly inexperienced and therefore very vulnerable Sherlock. The talk was rapidly endeavouring into - for very good reasons - never before touched upon territory.

“Oh no. It was quite… stimulating. At least at first.”

“You don't have to tell me… it's ok if you don't want to talk about it.” John didn't want to sound too inquisitive, so he trod carefully.

Sherlock sighed. “Well, I'm sure you've been around more blocks than I have, so you won't be that easily shocked. He wasn't violent or anything… at first. It was just that he… liked to watch… me… with other people. And I couldn't cope with that. I was rather sensitive, quite pettish really and naively thought that it should have been different… between us. But he took me to task, he took advantage.”

John suddenly felt sick and had to take a large swig of his drink. If he'd ever meet this Victor Trevor, he'd positively channel his SAS training to good use.

“The bastard honestly sounds a truly warped fellow.” John wasn't able to entirely hide his disgust.

Sherlock smiled but his eyes shone a cold obsidian.

“In the end, Mycroft intervened. I spent the summer in rehab and didn't return to university for the next term. Instead, I moved to London. Initially I stayed at my brother's but – surprise, surprise - we didn't get on, so I went to live on my own. I strayed for a few years but it all turned out well in the end.” Sherlock looked back at John and this time his smile reached his eyes.

John would never have thought that he could actually be grateful towards Mycroft Holmes. Well, you live and learn.

“And that's why, ever since, you regarded yourself married to your work?”

“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.” It came out a bit stiff, like Sherlock was reciting a formerly important but now somewhat meaningless mantra.

“No. Friends protect people.” And with that, John leaned in and very gently brushed the tips of his fingers over the palm of Sherlock's hand before interlacing their fingers, tenderly squeezing. Sherlock didn't pull away and that, John was sure, had to count as not too small a victory.

**Author's Note:**

> This got darker than expected. I'm sorry if I offended someone.


End file.
